


The Promotion

by razboinicul_iernii



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Overeating, Assets & Handlers, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), POV Brock Rumlow, Vomiting, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the (sort of) coveted position for Lead Handler of the Winter Soldier goes to someone Brock feels is undeserving, he has no choice but to resort to sabotage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Promotion

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this does feature a character using a slur typically used against mentally handicapped people. Take care.
> 
> Also: this story does include a character being forced to eat too much and consequently throwing up, which I have been notified may be difficult subject matter for individuals with eating disorder to read. Sorry for not having realized this when initially posted and I hope it has not caused too much distress for anyone!

So there was this soldier. Asset, weapon, thing, Cro-Magnon man in and out of his glacier, whatever you called him. He was Hydra's best weapon and apparently had the capacity for independent thought of your average houseplant. That meant he required a very dedicated individual to act as a director of sorts when on the field. This position, officially designated as 'Lead Handler' was simultaneously an envied and reviled one for a man like Brock to be in. Envied because it meant you were basically the best Hydra had to offer. Trustworthy, sharp, quick to adapt to an intense and potentially deadly situation. Reviled because sometimes, the Soldier's conditioning went wonky and he massacred entire squadrons if the handler couldn't hack it and get control again. But every job accessible to Brock was one that came with a risk of death on the field, and he just accepted it. He didn't let fears like that interfere with his performance or his desire to succeed. 

But he couldn't figure out how he'd been skipped over for the promotion to Lead Handler and it'd gone instead to a showboating, smug, two-faced little asshole named Reynolds who was _definitely_ going to fuck it all up. Brock wasn't bitter. Far from it. He just didn't _get_ it, that's all, and he didn't want to be on the field when the shit hit the fan. How did the entire rest of the organization miss all the things he picked up on already? He tried not to let these annoyances stew too much. It could mess with his head and get him passed by again. Maybe he couldn't help the way his eyes kept getting drawn back to the other table in the cafeteria where the newly minted Lead Handler Reynolds sat, bragging to any group of agents brave enough to listen.

Brave enough because the dumbass brought the Soldier with him for his lunch break. Brock knew that was idiotic but Reynolds argued that it was acclimating the Soldier to his new superior. Which was obviously why the asshole had the most accomplished assassin in human history standing there at the end of the table like an organ grinder's monkey juggling six apples. Where the hell were all the important people when you needed them to see something stupid was going on right under their noses? It wasn't like the Soldier needed any help looking out of place. He didn't look human. Or maybe it was better to say, if he were so philosophically inclined as to care about the distinction, he didn't look like _a person._ He looked blank, like a paper nobody had ever written on.

Brock kept his eye on Reynolds, watching as he bragged to the agents at his table, and it was like a rich kid with the hottest new toy the day after it came out or something. "...does anything you tell him to. I could make him punch through the wall to go get my lunch out of the locker room just 'cause I don't feel like walking over there."

"Oh fuck off," Rollins muttered with a roll of his eyes. He'd been here a few years more than the rest of them and wasn't as prone to the sort of terrified yet star-struck attitude a lot of the younger ones got when the Soldier was active.

"Hey, you better show some respect," Reynolds said, lopsided grin on his face. Then he glanced at the Soldier and said, "Ain't that right, my new friend?"

And the Soldier didn't say anything probably because even he had the presence of mind to know he'd succumbed to the most timeless of American dreams: his boss was an idiot and he had to tolerate it. It didn't have to be that way, if they'd just promoted Brock. Or anybody else, really. He knew that this was going to blow up in Hydra's face, and he really wished he had a way to prevent it from happening. The guy was already treating a weapon like a toy, ignoring regulations to do so. Ignoring the Soldier wasn't the brightest idea. Gloating about how you could get him to do anything you wanted was an even worse one.

But then a thought struck him. Maybe the answer was right there in Reynolds' profound stupidity in being oblivious to the Soldier. He could-  
  
It was dirty, but it might just get the job done. A quick glance around the room confirmed his plan could be set in motion. The necessary tools were available. Now he just needed to provide the challenge and the distraction without being too overt. He sat down at the table, the only one brave enough to be in arm's reach of the Soldier, and he said, "So he'll _really_ do anything you tell him?"

"Why're you asking? Lonely or something?" A few of the men laughed.  
  
Brock gave him a smile, just to feed his ego. He couldn't imagine anybody getting intimate with the Solder. They'd probably end up with their own dick in their throat before it even began. "Nah. I just thought, they got that guy all frozen up most the time, always running around the rest of the time. Maybe he could use, like, I don't know, some fun. Something fun." It was a completely idiotic thing to think. The soldier wouldn't know 'fun' if it stabbed him in the face.

"Like what? You wanna take him minigolfing or something?" Again, some more laughs.

Brock shrugged. "Nah, just something little. Like a nice treat or something. Gold star for waking up this morning and gracing us with his terrifying presence."

Reynolds blew a raspberry at the preposterous notion.

"I'm serious! Look at him," Brock gestured emphatically and everyone did as he said. Maybe he should just be everyone's handler. The Soldier, however, was pretty well oblivious as to the content of their conversation and just kept juggling the apples, never even following them with his eyes. He didn't quite look bored, but close. Maybe blankness and boredom were a little difficult to distinguish. "He looks like he's about to murder someone right now!"

"Good, 'cause that's the whole reason he exists!"

Brock smacked his lips and waved his hand dismissively. He let his eyes wander, a calculated move made to look spur of the moment. His eyes settled on the freezers and fridges set against the wall. Some people lived on the base and others didn't. He remembered one of the on-base agents had special ordered himself and his buddies some ice cream. After all, it wasn't like the place made a habit of having parties or something so it wasn't a normal feature of the spartan cafeteria. But the higher-ups didn't give a shit what food people brought around so long as none of it was laced with some kind of microchip to bug everybody with. "Hey, they got ice cream in there today, remember? Give him some damn ice cream."

"Don't be stupid."

"Come on, everybody loves ice cream!" Reynolds just shook his head again and Brock snorted. "Sounds like you don't think he'd listen if you told him to eat it."

The guy bristled at the challenge, as expected, and he glared at the Soldier. "Hey, go get the ice cream out of that freezer there."

The Soldier waited for a moment, like he was mulling something over almost. But then he walked away, still juggling the apples and it struck Brock that he couldn't reconcile the two orders. How could he carry the box but also juggle the apples? More evidence his handler was a moron, or at least didn't pay much attention to details. "Drop the apples already!" Reynolds cried as if reading Brock's thoughts and the apples hit the ground with tough little thuds, the Soldier never sparing them a second glance. He returned with a box and stood at the edge of the table with it still in his hands.

"Put it down, moron," Reynolds said, smacking the table once for emphasis. The Soldier did so. Reynolds shot another one of his smug looks at Brock and Brock let his eyebrows raise as if he were impressed. Stuff that ego til it pops.

"So far so good, but I bet that he'd eat it, not that he'd do your footwork for you."

Reynolds started tearing open the box. He opened the gallon of chocolate ice cream then shoved it at the Soldier. "Eat it."

The Soldier stared at the black cardboard carton thrust into his hands, saw that it wasn't exactly ideal for eating with one's hands but wasn't ideal for drinking either, and then looked once more at his 'handler'. It was plain he was trying to resolve another issue here. "Christ, give the guy a spoon," Brock said, agitated that he even had to say it.

"Yeah yeah," Reynolds mumbled, ripping one off of another agent's tray and waving it at the Soldier. At first he dangled it like a string in front of a cat and jerked it away at the last second, leaving the Soldier's hand to pause in the air. Reynolds snickered a little before taking him by his metal wrist and smacking the spoon into it. It made a sharp, ringing noise for a second. "Bon appetit you fuckin' retard. Eat it."

So he did. Bit by bit, spoonful by spoonful, he ate chocolate ice cream which Brock knew for a fact was considered contraband for the Soldier. Using the asset as a parlor trick was largely frowned upon in most circles to begin with. Feeding him sugar rich, calorie dense, but ultimately nutritionally useless food that could easily have reminded it of its childhood or something-if he even had one-was also a no-no. And ordering him to eat without telling him when to stop was kind of a recipe for disaster. Brock noticed how much the Soldier had eaten already while Reynolds bragged some more, but that wasn't his job. Not yet. So he just kept distracting Reynolds from realizing that the asset had already powered through one gallon, glanced at his superior for an instruction to stop, and having gotten none, moved onto the next. Seemed almost like the guy wasn't really cut out for this job or something.

"Guess you sure showed me," Brock admitted with all the fake humility he could muster.

"Yeah, don't be bitter Rumlow. You'll get your moment in the spotlight one day."

"We'll see." Then he snapped his fingers like he'd suddenly remembered something. "Hey, you catch the playoffs the other night?" He went ahead and sat there, shooting the shit with the agents at the table, pretending to completely ignore the Soldier. He didn't miss the way his fingers shook a little when he opened the third carton of ice cream. It was maybe another fifteen minutes before Reynolds glanced at the Soldier again and his eyes practically bugged out of his head when he did so. The Soldier was staring at the table, awaiting orders, spoon still at the ready, but all four gallons were emptied out. Nothing dramatic happened. He didn't look wasted on sugar. He just stood, like he normally did, and if it weren't for the spoon in his hand, you'd never know he'd eaten anything.

"Shit, you ate all that?" Reynolds asked, not hiding the grimace that came naturally to his face. But Brock realized the guy was too short-sighted to be concerned with much else than how gross it was for someone to consume thousands of calories of ice cream in one sitting.

"Yes sir."

"Oh, god damn it, you idiot, what were you thinking?" Reynolds snatched the spoon away from the asset and slammed it on the table. Someone snickered but it definitely wasn't the Soldier. Or Brock.

"Ah, I'm sure it'll be fine," Brock said with a shrug. "He's built like a brick house. He'll burn it off in no time, just watch." Of course, the asset didn't end up burning it off, but he got rid of it somehow. With timing so perfect Brock could've bought him a beer for it. It was maybe another twelve minutes later when his team and the new handler were assembled for some schmaltzy little pep talk by Pierce. He did these when there was some training going on for an important upcoming mission, but Brock could've easily done without them. All he cared about was getting from Point A to Point B in the most efficient way possible and he didn't need his pride pampered to do it.

Alexander Pierce always looked like he should be at a soup kitchen with the sleeves of his crisp, white, button down shirt rolled up to the elbows while someone takes pictures of him doing it. He always had a pearly white smile ready to flash and his hair always looked like it'd just been styled by someone who earns way too much money spritzing water on people's heads for a living. He was basically so perfect that it was too perfect which was endearing, then suspicious, then finally looped back around to being endearing again. It was almost impressive.

Pierce gave one of those dazzling smiles as he waltzed into the room where Brock and a handful of other specials stood ready at attention. This was where his hard work got him and hell if he gave a shit about the prestige or honor or whatever crap they fluffed this all up with to make it sound noble that he killed dissidents for a living. He had one thing he was good at so he'd do it. Changing the world was rewarding in itself, so he didn't need the platitudes like some of these guys.

"Wow," Pierce said like he was genuinely astonished to be in their presence even if he was the boss here and had undoubtedly hung around men of much higher quality than themselves. "Never before have we had such an astounding group of soldiers up for promotion. Really an impressive team if I've ever seen one. It will be with your hard work that we put into place the machinations to shape a better, more ideal world."

Some of these other agents were disillusioned as hell and felt rejected by society. They'd do anything for someone who pretended to care. And Pierce was good at that. 

"While I really do wish each of you could lend your expert services to the Winter Soldier position, I'm afraid we could only use one man for the job." Here he gave an appreciative smile to Reynolds, like it was some in joke between them and not common knowledge. The guy puffed out his chest a little and nodded back. Reynolds was a bigger tool than the one he was supposed to be in charge of. "Don't worry, though-the rest of you will be assembled into a new unit entirely, a team sent out for the toughest challenges we will face in the coming days. You are just as valuable and important to our cause." Here Pierce glanced back at the Soldier, as if the guy was in on it and not a total robot who did whatever he was told. The Soldier looked dead. Or maybe just queasy. And maybe, Brock decided, he wasn't so disappointed anymore because at least something was going his way today. He watched as Pierce enthusiastically introduced the drone to the team in an official capacity for the first time. Maybe he was unaware the asset had been juggling fruit in the cafeteria. He went down the line, naming the agents as was custom. After all, they'd be pretty useless back up if the Soldier didn't even know their names to call on them. He echoed each officer's name in a voice that sounded thin and low from disuse, and maybe even a bit shaky from something else altogether.

"This is an important day for all of us here." Pierce continued as they reached the end of the introductions. He got Reynolds to shake hands with the Soldier and Brock narrowed his eyes a little. Payoff was coming. He noticed the way the Soldier's tongue darted out a couple times to lick his lips and swallowed hard, like he had to get rid of a bad taste in his mouth. Noticed him blink a little too rapidly. A reddish tint rising in cheeks that had otherwise gone all pasty and pale.

"Sir," Brock tried to say because he'd seen that look a dozen damn times in others and himself. And he wanted to be the one to save the boss from an unfortunate accident to highlight how not-stupid he was in comparison with someone else.

Pierce waved a hand and said, "You'll get your moment, son, just wait."

Ass. "Sir, the asset-"

"We'll train you all to work with him, don't you worry," Pierce said and fuck it. Brock gave it his best right? He could still end up looking good at the end of this if he made sure to mention the four empty gallons of ice cream sitting in the cafeteria trash can. Let him have it. Pierce turned that shit eating grin towards the Soldier and said, "Isn't that right?"

Brock had to do the best he could to keep a straight face when the Soldier turned to Pierce, stared, and vomited ugly brown frozen dairy dessert all over the shocked politician's neatly pressed suit.


End file.
